The trouble is to remember if Sohrab or Rustum is the father as in any poetry of foreign parentage
“the literature” is situate, clarity of a seawave unexpected – nor the glutinous or even viscid
web that makes believable Courbet’s “Wave” and Hopkins’s choppers “like flint” on the way
to France. Whistler could do one in one sweep of the brush though his fruit shops or through fog
may matter, anti-Tissot, fuzzy orange or gold visibilities. He would have seen lobsters or goldfish
in shops (and liqueurs as goldfish) striped waiters having fought for beards Browning’s fishermen, catch on the quay
jewels again. It’s not eyes or mouths that catch us by analogy but the sides’s deft grays. A policeman in
his costume if ice and angled glass are his car. We saw a Rodin book reduced, conversations
with big castable words in or subjects belly up, feet.
Kidney or spleen in demo torso fit well with hardly a lump on the outside skin and fat,
polished stone with gravures like lacings in a hollow, irregular lithic piece, boxed
you know is art from how the felt follows, depression’s Darwinian dignity the stone sinking.
Musicians imagine massed fiddles’s spray in Fingal, celtiquerie through mist, the
Tai Chi sword (two shades of wood fitted with pegs, oiled) or Burch’s
harp in New Hampshire of the neck and soundbox, come in with hounds.
Yevtushenko they say was awarded two teeshirts, a Huskers and a Go Big Red
provinciality he said where he finds people keep in touch.
The occipital condyle can be thought as separating, going very slightly up, the
neck ventriloquial broomstick flowerpot the spine like chain trailing from a truck
the last link like the fifty-centsize thumb cookie throat dent, target
that in the trade is never targe to rhyme with Marj.